


we were formed from the clay

by tosca1390



Category: Women of the Otherworld - Kelley Armstrong
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1326130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She wants stability, wants solidity; she wants to have a place to be found. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>She wonders what Jeremy would think of her apartment. Whether he would think of it as a home. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	we were formed from the clay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts), [empressearwig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressearwig/gifts), [torigates](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torigates/gifts), [hariboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hariboo/gifts).



> Post-No Humans Involved. Real invested in these two morons. SIGH. 
> 
> For Jordan, and the other enablers.

*

“So, it’s a thing, then?”

Jaime frowns, tucking her cell phone between her ear and shoulder. “ _Thing_?”

Through the phone, Paige sighs. Jaime thinks she can hear the rolling of her eyes. Paige has always been a sassy one. “You and Jeremy.”

A flush crawls over Jaime’s skin. There is something in the sound of his name that leaves her aflutter. She doesn’t mind; she likes feeling this way, as if something matters more than her career and the ghosts that dog her steps and the uncertain future waiting for her. The more connections she has in the corporeal world, the better; it’s part of the reason why she likes her work for the Interracial Council, why she calls Paige and Elena and Lucas and Hope on a regular basis. Without her friends, she would be haunted by ghosts and already mad, she’s sure of it. 

It’s why, as futile as it seemed for four long years, she had embraced her feelings for Jeremy. Another sign of her own spirit, her own sanity. 

“What’s your definition of _thing_?” Jaime asks, peering into her bathroom mirror, the lighting soft and golden against her pale skin. Her Chicago apartment is comfortable, spacious, and is rarely-used. But Jaime’s tired of constantly travelling and she’s decided to be here more often, for now at least. She wants stability, wants solidity; she wants to have a place to be found. 

She wonders what Jeremy would think of her apartment. Whether he would think of it as a home. 

Paige’s laugh is low and all-knowing. “Did he finally figure out his shit?”

“Theoretically,” Jaime replies, running her fingers through her hair. She is all reds and creams, freckles dotting along her collarbones, peeking through the neck of her shirt. There is so much of the Irish in her, of her grandmother; it’s a strange thing to realize at last. “We didn’t have a lot of time to define anything or write out a Cabal-style contract, seeing as how there were the spirits of children to help.”

“From what I can tell, Jeremy Danvers doesn’t fuck and run,” Paige says with a smirk Jaime can see from thousands of miles away. “So, I think it’s a thing.”

“We can only hope,” Jaime murmurs. “I’d – Jesus – “

“You’d like nothing more,” Paige supplies neatly. 

Sighing, Jaime strides out of the bathroom and down the hall to her bedroom. Two weeks since she’s seen Jeremy in Los Angeles, and she still feels the ghosts of his hands on her body, the press of his fingers between her thighs, his teeth at her throat. This is a haunting she thinks she could get used to; these are the phantom touches she wants. 

Of course, if it’s that few and far between, it’s another question entirely. 

“I don’t see you jetting off to New York,” Paige says as Jaime curls up in the center of her bed, the sheets and blankets shifting under her limbs. 

Jaime tucks a hand under a pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “I wouldn’t, unless he invited me. That’s his Pack,” she says softly. 

Paige hums through the phone, laughter lurking between her words. “I don’t think he would mind.”

“Just because you didn’t mind when Lucas shacked up with you immediately doesn’t mean Jeremy and I are the same,” Jaime grumbles. 

“Four years of pining, though. That’s some courtship,” Paige says, all affection and excitement in her voice. 

“God,” Jaime mutters, lets Paige shift the conversation away from Jeremy to the next council meeting a month from now. Her heart beats a strange tattoo against her ribs, wondering. She’s had a taste of everything she’s wanted for years, and still, she wonders. 

Her curiosity always gets the best of her. 

*

Separate but colliding lives. 

That’s what Jaime thinks they decided on, in those hurried hours between sending the children onwards with Eve and Kristoff and Jeremy’s flight back to New York. The thrice-yearly council meetings are theirs, and he will come to her on her tour stops, and perhaps she will make her way towards New York City. It makes sense; they are tied to specific lives and patterns already, and he has the Pack to think of and be responsible for. It makes all the sense in the world, to say that they will see each other when they see each other, until it is too hard to do so. They will cross that bridge when they get to it, she supposes. 

What if she gets there first?

Jaime is always trying to stay one step ahead of those who could wound her. Her mother, her agents, her so-called friends; she has been alone for so long so far because truly she moves too quickly for the rest of them. If she never remains in a person’s space long enough to become attached, she can always be ready to go. It’s reflexive protection from years of pushing and pulling, of being someone else’s prospect, someone else’s success. 

With Jeremy, from the very first, she wanted to pause. She wanted to be still, be in his moment. It had frightened her, and used it, used the conflicting emotions as a mask. For so long, everyone had thought it was pure lust, an unadulterated crush better suited for teenagers. But Jaime had always known better – she still does. Jeremy is the first person to make her stop, and think, and _breathe_ ; it is like she understands how to belong in her own skin when he is there. For so long she has resisted the true nature of her gifts; now, when she knows how much she can do, he is the first person to say yes, to say she can. She wants to live in those moments forever, curl into his lean hold and just be. 

Whether it is the same for him, she doesn’t quite know. In Los Angeles, he said he craved and thrived on responsibility; whether he meant of his own choosing, or hers, she isn’t sure. One of those little things they’ll find out… eventually. 

Until then, she’ll edge towards the abyss and that bridge to something more tangible and permanent, and wonder just how long she’ll wait for him there. 

*

Jaime doesn’t want to know about other women. She’s sure it’s been quite a while for Jeremy, sure that, much like other werewolves, he doesn’t have a solid track record of monogamy. Why should he? It isn’t a part of the nature of the beast, or so she’s heard. 

She doesn’t want to know about it, though. She doesn’t want to think about becoming one of many until it happens. She likes the moment, likes the press of his mouth against hers, likes the possessive curl of his hand over her hair, the nape of her neck. They are living fully in the present and she appreciates it, needs it, craves it. 

“I’m shocked Clay let you come so far on your own,” she says as they walk through the dusky night air. They’re in Charleston tonight, her first live show since Los Angeles. Already the ghosts in this old city have found her, trail her like she is a rainbow to their pot of gold. But she is safe in the circle of Jeremy’s arm around her shoulders, his fingers tangling in the loose straight fall of her hair. The night is warm and dry, the salt spray of the sea in her nose. 

“I am quite certain his separation anxiety will resolve itself,” Jeremy says in that cool even tone of his. This is how he had hid his desires for so long, under these careful words and the flat planes of his handsome lean face. One doesn’t rise to Alpha without quite the poker face. Perhaps he will learn to relax it more often around her. 

“Besides,” he adds after a moment, almost casually, “Nick is trailing me.”

“Ah,” Jaime says, resisting the urge to crane her neck to check. Nick, flirtatious and brash, would take a hint well. 

Jeremy’s palm curves over her bare shoulder. He fingers the thin strap of her tank top lightly. The touch shudders through her. It’s been so _long_ , and now that she knows what it can be – separate but colliding doesn’t feel like enough. 

“Do you mind?” he asks in that low tone of his that drives her mad. 

Her heels click on the brick sidewalk, the scent of magnolias heavy in the air as they walk under flowering trees. The skies are purple-orange with the coming night, the sun setting low and heavy at their backs. 

“Of course not,” she says, surprised. “You’re – Jesus, Jeremy. You’re the Alpha. Of course they will protect you.”

 _And since I can’t do it, someone needs to_ , she thinks, perhaps a little bitterly. She is braver than most, if not as fearless (reckless, perhaps) as Paige or Elena; she puts up a pretty good fight when her back is against the wall. She’s taken self-defense classes and works out enough to protect herself, if need be. Enough to protect the Alpha of the North American Pack? Probably not. 

He makes a thoughtful sound, one she has to scramble to interpret. She doesn’t know all his tells yet. 

So, she tucks herself against his side and breathes in his scent. Perhaps there is part-wolf somewhere in her past, for all she wants to do is roll herself in his scent, until it envelopes her and it is embedded in her skin. “Have you been to Charleston before?”

“Once, when I was younger,” he says, glancing down at her with those dark slanted eyes. She feels a sharp tug of want in her lower belly. “You?”

“I’ve avoided it like the plague,” she says with a light laugh. “The ghosts here are bitter. The South in general is a hard place to work. And yet, so much of my demand is below the Mason-Dixon. Figures.”

“Bitter?”

She shrugs. “American history hasn’t been kind to a lot of people. There are a lot of unsettled lives in these places. Charleston isn’t as bad as some. Once, I was in Atlanta, and I nearly passed out from the amount of talkative spirits in one place.”

He listens to her as he always does; attentively and with clear focus. His hand drifts from her shoulder to her hair, his fingers smoothing through. Her voice doesn’t falter, even if the affection of the touch still surprises her. 

A memory comes, unbidden. “My first agent booked me at an event at Gettysburg, when I was just making a name for myself,” she says quietly, the words spilling from her lips without pause. “I still didn’t understand everything about my abilities. All I knew was that it was a paid gig, and it would provide some national exposure.”

His palm slides under her hair, curving to the nape of her neck. She shivers. “For an untried necromancer, a location such as Gettysburg could be overwhelming,” he says.

“It was dreadful,” she says flatly, shaking her head. “I had no business being there. Places like that are just saturated with spirits who met violent ends, and it’s hard enough for a talented, practiced necromancer. I got through the televised special, pretended to talk to some dead soldiers. Brothers forgiving brothers, that sappy bullshit people want from the Civil War. All I wanted to do was get away. They were so – “

Pausing, she glances around. A park bench catches at the side of her gaze, situated at the edge of a pretty, lushly green park. The memory is heavy on her mind, tiring her. She blinks and tugs at Jeremy, pulls him along. The night creeps through the trees, stars peeking through the sheer film of wispy clouds above. 

When they sit, he doesn’t hesitate to tuck her to his side, one hand falling to her thigh. His touch is a brand of heat through the thin cotton of her skirt. One hand remains at her hair, the nape of her neck. 

“They followed me to my hotel, some of them. I tried – I had never had so many crying out at once before, and I tried to soothe them, I did – but it was too much, and I passed out. My agent found me when I missed dinner. He thought I’d gotten drunk, or something.” She shakes her head and looks out onto the shadowy landscaping of the park, the sinking of starlight into the tree branches. Goosebumps prickle over her bare arms. 

“That’s partially why I started ignoring them – all of them. Pushing away the real ramifications of my abilities to focus on the showmanship. There was so much hurt in that space, and I knew I could never help enough – it was terrible,” she finishes, her cheeks flushing. Her newfound direction is still that: new. There are hundreds of thousands of spirits she’s ignored over a career of twenty years or more that she may never have a chance to help again. Even now, she’s not sure her work will ever be enough. 

Still quiet, Jeremy leans in and touches his lips to her ear, her jaw. She shivers again, wrapping her hand around his as it rests on her thigh. 

“I don’t know why I told you that,” she says at last. “I’ve never told anyone that.”

“I’m glad you did,” he says immediately, voice gentle. That gentleness belies the fierce heat of his gaze, the possessive touch of his hand on her neck, his lips at her cheek. 

Sighing a little, she leans back into the bench, into the curve of his arm. “I’ve gotten better. Clearly. But places like – well, here are sometimes hard to handle.”

“I wonder, then, why you scheduled a show here,” he says in that pensive way of his after a moment. 

Swallowing hard, she turns her gaze to his. “You help,” she says frankly. Why be shy about it? His rune is inked into her skin. It means something to her. “You help center me. You make it easier to – well – “ A flush rises on her cheeks; she’s sure she’s as red as her fucking hair. “They’re still following me. But you’re a – “

“I think that you are quite strong enough to handle it on your own,” he interrupts smoothly, stroking her hair away from her face with a lean strong hand. “However, if you think I am helpful in any way shape or form, I am glad to be of service. I only wish to spend time with you.”

She blinks, a strange lump settling in her throat. In the near future she can see the bridge, too far to cross and frightening. Already, already she isn’t sure what the next year will be, whether two days together in random cities once or twice a month will be enough. She is independent and forthright, and has never thought of putting aside any of that for a man. Jeremy would never ask her to, she’s certain of that; she wonders if she might _want_ to, for the very first time. 

It’s too soon to ask what he thinks of this arrangement, she thinks as he curves his hand to her cheek. Very much too soon. Shit, she is utterly undone and in love with him, and he – 

She just can’t be sure. She’s never sure of how people truly feel. Maybe it’s all the goddamn show business bullshit, the veneers and the smiles and the politics of it all, but she can’t trust anyone worth a damn. She hasn’t tried in a very long time. 

“Jaime.”

Her eyes flit back to his. Under the even planes of his olive-dark skin, she can see the tension thrumming there. The want. That, at least, she can be sure of. He wants her. Wants her enough to travel across the country for forty-eight hours with her. 

She smiles slightly, tilting her head back slightly. The line of her neck curves with exposure; she hears the slight intake of breath in his throat. 

“Want to come scare some ghosts from the hotel room?” she asks, dropping her voice low and sweet. 

He gives her that quarter-grin of his, a quick flash of white teeth. “I suppose.”

They walk very quickly through the warm Charleston streets, spirits at their backs. Darkness settles thickly over their hotel room, with just the gleam of the streetlights through gauzy drapes to light her way. 

Jeremy, however, does not have this problem. 

As soon as the door to their room shuts behind them, his hands find the zip of her dress with ease, beginning at the nape of her neck. She remembers dressing for dinner, pushing aside her hair to let him zip her up, thinking of how he would do this later on. Later is now, and he is slow where she thought he would be quick. She thinks she can hear the metal teeth separating from each other with the gentle slide of his fingers down her spine. 

“I want – “ he pauses, a rare moment of collection. His face is at the curve of her throat, nose in her hair. The heat of him at her back is intoxicating. “I want to take time with this.”

She lets out a breath, shuddering as her dress falls away from her skin. Forest green cotton, cool to her touch, a complement to her skin and hair; she remembers the sheen of his gaze at dinner, watching her. She had the distinct sensation of the wolf watching her then, appraising her. 

“We didn’t have a chance, in Los Angeles. And I – “ 

He quiets himself once more, his mouth finding the line of her throat. He kisses her skin with wet hot intention, his hands peeling away the dress from her body. She tilts back into his hold as the straps glide down her arms. The dress slides past her hips and she wiggles just a bit, letting it drop to her ankles. She is left in black lace at her breasts and her thighs, sheer enough to titillate. She knows how to put herself together for a show, though she wonders if she could show up in just a t-shirt and he would want her just as much. 

“I want to take my time with you,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. The vibration against her skin melts into her middle and between her thighs. 

“No breaking doors tonight?” she teases as his hands splay over her belly, pulling her right up against his chest. 

“No. Though I’m not ruling out breaking the bed.”

Her laugh is swallowed into a moan as his hands slide over her ribs to cup her breasts through the sheer lace of her bra. She shudders and arches into the touch, reaching back to splay a hand possessively over his jean-clad thigh. The friction of his clothes against her bare skin tangles though her, raising the hair on the back of her neck and arms. His thumbs crest over her nipples and she rests her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She’s sure he can tell, can scent how much she wants him. Slick between her thighs, she curls into the lean long line of his body and enjoys as his hands explore her body leisurely. 

And it is leisurely. His mouth finds the secret hollows and sensitive points along her throat and jaw, the curve of her shoulder. Sometimes with his lips, sometimes with his tongue – and then he bites, a sharp press of his teeth at her shoulder blade as she leans forward, chasing the heat of his hands. One forearm strong around her waist, his other hand cups between her thighs, feels the dampness soaking her lace panties. 

A growl against her skin as her breath hitches. She undulates into the touch, her legs unsteady on her four-inch-heels. 

“Already? Jaime, Jaime,” he breathes, sounding so entirely wicked and entirely unlike the Jeremy Danvers he presents to the world. She wets her lips and slips her hand over her belly, covering his fingers with hers. 

“I’m always like this. Whenever you walk into a room, or when we talk on the phone,” she murmurs huskily. Together they shift under the lace to touch damp curls, parting wet folds to tease her. It’s unbearable to have his fingers there with hers, to feel him overtake her touch as his clever long fingers find her clit and tease. Her body quivers with the sensation, leaning heavily against him as the pleasure shudders through her. 

“The phone?” he asks against her shoulder, the edges of his teeth sinking into muscle. She shivers as he licks at her bare skin, two long fingers teasing inside of her. 

“Yes,” she hisses out, palming her hands against his hips to keep herself upright. His erection pushes against the small of her back and she nudges closer, the pressure a tease. 

He hums against her shoulder, licking his way up the curve of her neck as his fingers stroke her, his thumb circling her clit. “I have never understood the appeal of phone sex,” he says in his even, thoughtful way. But she can hear the animal coloring his words, that husky sound of want. “To listen to you pleasure yourself, though. I think I might like that.”

She presses back against him, skin damp with sweat and need. “Two-way street, buddy,” she gasps out as his thumb presses on her clit. “Tit for tat.”

The smile that curves at her throat is deadly and pleasing. “Oh, yes.”

His hand slides away from her slick folds, leaving her bereft for a moment, hungry for more. She is in his arms in an instant, cradled to his chest as he carries her to the bed and lays her out across the perfectly smooth blankets, as if she is a feast for his eyes only. Fingers still sticky from her slip her heels from her feet. She lifts herself up on her elbows as she spreads her thighs and watches him watch her, her pulse fluttering from the knife’s edge of pleasure he left her upon. 

“Come here,” she says, meeting his eyes. There’s an odd softness to her voice she doesn’t want to place. 

Jeremy’s eyes gleam in the darkness, his mouth curling into a grin. The muted streetlight reflects gold in his dark sleek hair. 

“No rushing,” he says, kneeling on the bed between her thighs. 

“I think you’ve been leisurely enough so far,” she grounds out, arching her neck up for a kiss as he leans over her. 

His hands catch her at her back and the nape of her neck, supporting her. “I don’t think there’s enough time in the world to spend with you, Jaime,” he murmurs before his mouth covers his in a fierce, hot kiss. His tongue slips between her parted lips and she moans, shutting her eyes and reaching up to tunnel her fingers into his hair to hold her to her. He presses her back into the bed as he kisses her, drinking her in with such intensity that for a moment, she thinks she might bow under the need of it. 

But she is strong, and she _wants_ , too. So she slides her hands over the taut line of her back and finds the hem of his shirt, skin searching for skin. Her mouth turns insistent for his, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as she finds hot muscle and skin, drags her fingers over well-tuned muscle and the line of his spine. He is hers to touch for now and she wants, wants to sink into him and the sinewy grace of his body and the low growl of his voice and the fine-tuned nuance of his mind. He is everything she could imagine and nothing she thinks she deserves. It is an odd paradox, one she cannot think on for too long. 

When he leaves her mouth to shift down her body, to kiss the lace-shielded curves of her breasts and the sensitive valley of skin between, she rocks up and moans, digging her hands into his shoulder blades. His answering growl sends of a shock of heat right through her. 

“I like that,” he says into her skin, licking at her taut nipple under the sheer lace. His teeth bite lightly and she cries out with it, the sensation layering upon his earlier tease. “I like this, too.”

“Jeremy – “

He slides his hand under her panties and cups hers, finds her still wet and hot and wanting. She twitches and arches into the hold, her nails sinking into his shoulders. She’s sure he’ll be marked by her come morning. She likes the thought of it. 

“There’s one thing that’s been driving me mad about you,” he murmurs, shifting down her body. His tongue leaves wet trails on her belly, his teeth nipping at her hipbone. 

“What’s that?” she breathes out, voice almost too low to hear. 

His eyes meet hers as he licks at her inner thigh. Fingers twist at the edges of her lace panties and tug, ripping the fabric with barely a sound and an effort. Her hands settle at his hair, twisting the dark thick strands. She’s sure he can hear her heart beating in the dim hazy quiet of their room. 

“How you taste,” he says, before lowering his mouth to her.

His tongue sweeps through her wet folds and she cries out, bucking against him. But there is his arm across her belly and his hand at her thigh, spreading her further, and she is completely at his mercy. His tongue circles her clit and teases her opening, his teeth graze and nip at sensitive slick flesh. All the while she can feel the vibration of his growls against her, the roll of his tongue as he presses in further. She shakes and tunnels her hands into his hair, holding him there between her thighs. Everything condenses into the two of them, stretched out in the center of their bed, alone in a world of ghosts and responsibilities. For a brief spell, he is all she can sense and feel and breathe; it’s a moment of incredible freedom.

She comes the first time with a shout of his name, a high-pitched whine following. He doesn’t move, just brings his hand between her thighs and presses two fingers in, curling them as he thrusts. He tongues her clit and she shudders, rocking insensibly into the touch. He touches her like a man starved, and she want to get used to it, wants to always feel this way with him and for him. The second time she just moans brokenly, her hands falling away to the bed as she lies limp beneath him. 

He turns his mouth and sucks a hard kiss into the inside of her thigh, his breathing hot and heavy against her skin. “Jaime, _Jaime_ ,” he breathes against her, his fingers pressing deep into her hipbone. 

She twists slightly, squirming under his touch, willing him to stretch over her and press her into the mattress and come inside her. “Jeremy –“ she moans, dragging her hands over his shoulders, his neck, the mussed mess her fingers have made of his hair. 

He lifts himself and crawls over her, his erection hot and hard between her thighs. She hooks a thigh over his hip and drags him close, welcomes the heavy weight of him over her. Hands flinch over her belly as he reaches for the zipper of his jeans, and she aids him, pushes his jeans and boxers over his hips, listens as he kicks them off and the fabric falls to the floor. His shirt lingers, as does her bra, but she doesn’t care – she just wants the push of him inside her, the press of his chest against hers. 

When he slides into her, kissing her as he does, she swallows down a shout, and holds him achingly close. The taste of her is still on his tongue. 

“You’re exhausting,” she says much later. 

A cool breeze curls through the haze, the smell of sex heavy in the room. Both naked now, they stretch out together under the sheets. She nestles back against him, his chest warm against her back, his hand possessive on the bare curve of her breast. 

A laugh stirs her messy hair at the nape of her neck. “Trust me, I have a lot more ideas. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

 _So have I_ , she thinks as she shuts her eyes and curls her arm over his on her waist. And she can’t help but wonder what happens when the ideas run out. 

*

Necromancers have no semblance of a Pack, or a Coven, or a Cabal. Even the vampires are better connected with their fellow kind than Jaime’s people are. 

Jaime doesn’t have a good theory as to why. She thinks it is the mental, individual, personal nature of the gift; it affects everyone in different ways, with varying strengths. The mental decline is another; insanity comes to all, and it’s just a matter of when and how. When Jaime needs help, there are very few fellow necromancers she can call upon. And when spirits need help, they always seem to find Jaime. Thanks to Eve, she’s probably getting a reputation in the otherworld. 

It’s a heavy burden, but one she accepts. But it is a lonely one, and she’s only now learning how to share that with others. 

“You sound tired,” Elena says over the phone. Jaime can hear one of the twins in the background, running with heavy feet on the hardwood floors of Stonehaven. There are mental pictures she has of Jeremy’s home, from the few details he’s shared with her, but nothing concrete. She wonders if she will ever even see it. 

“I’m fine,” Jaime says automatically, sitting on the coarse hotel comforter. It’s Philadelphia this time, another live show. Jeremy was supposed to come join her, but instead she’s on the phone, talking to Elena, and wondering what the story is now. 

It doesn’t help that there’s a haunter dogging her steps, one with a bitter past. A woman scorned is doubly nasty in the afterlife (with good reason, Jaime’s sure). It’s making it hard to focus on the show tomorrow night, on the length of time since she’s seen Jeremy (three weeks since Charleston, and another month until the Interracial Council meeting where she is guaranteed to see him), on how mixed up and out of sorts she feels in this moment. 

“I’m sorry Jeremy can’t come,” Elena says, and the apologetic tone is absolutely sincere. “Kate’s fever refuses to go down, and Clay is useless – “

A low growl from behind Elena, who just laughs. Jaime smiles faintly. Partnership of any kind is enviable in this moment. 

Philadelphia is dark and hot outside, the air thick with ozone and a coming storm. The haunter – a woman recently murdered, if Jaime’s got it right – hasn’t found her in her hotel room yet. But she’s sure it’ll be soon. Jaime’s skin itches with the sensation of being hunted, and she wants Jeremy here, wants his stable and solidifying presence. 

“It’s okay,” she says to Elena at last, curling her bare toes into the rough carpet. “The kids come first. Pack comes first.”

Elena lets out a low breath. “It’s not – it’s not like that –“

“It’s okay,” Jaime insists, keeping her voice even and bright. Showtime voice. “I’m busy with show prep anyway. Everybody wants to talk to Ben Franklin. Maybe this will be that show.”

The ambient noises fade from the background on Elena’s end. “Do you want an extra hand? Karl might be around – “

“No,” Jaime says. She thinks more of Karl than she did six months ago, but still. She doesn’t want anyone but Jeremy, and she can take care of herself. She’s dealt with haunters before, and it’s not like a werewolf makes a difference to a ghost. “I’m good, thanks.”

“He feels terrible about it,” Elena says, voice quiet. “He – he really wants to see you.”

Chest aching, Jaime pushes herself into bed and curls up under the blankets, right in the middle. She is alone, and she feels it keenly. “There’s always next month in Portland.” The Interracial Council meetings shift from coast to coast, to keep the traveling distances and time away from families equal. 

“Right,” Elena says, and Jaime can tell she wants to press further. But Jaime just signs off with a feel better soon for Kate and hangs up. In her plane clothes, jeans and t-shirt, she shuts her eyes, hoping for quiet darkness. 

Her cell phone wakes her just as the whispers from the haunter do. Jaime blinks awake and scowls. Midnight, and the storm still hasn’t broken, the room muggy and uncomfortable. She sits up in bed and glares at the spirit, who snarls right back. 

“Being nasty doesn’t help your fucking case,” Jaime mutters as she picks up the phone. 

“A bad time?” Jeremy asks, his voice even and soothing over the phone. 

Some of the tension in her subsides. She blinks and sits up against the headboard. “No. Hi.”

“Hello,” he says, voice warming. 

“How’s Kate?” 

“She’ll be fine. The fever’s going down slowly.”

Jaime glares at the woman’s ghost. _Leave_ , she mouths, and the woman just plops down in the middle of the floor and makes herself comfortable. At least she isn’t throwing shit yet. 

“Glad to hear it,” Jaime says, trying to keep her tone even. 

Jeremy is quiet just for a moment. The sound of his even breathing soothes her. “Where are you?”

“In the hotel room.”

“Ah,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “Well, if I can’t be there in person, perhaps I can be there in spirit.”

She winces as the ghost perks up, scowling wickedly. “Oh,” she says, stalling. Phone sex with Jeremy is great – it’s been something of a tradition since Charleston – but right now – 

“Jaime?”

“I have to sleep,” she blurts out, a flush hot on her cheeks. She feels like an idiot, and not the professional adult woman she is, but the situation is odd and she’s got a ghost staring her down and Jeremy is supposed to be _here_ , damnit, and she can’t deal with everything all at once. 

His silence is palpable. She screws her eyes shut and pulls her legs up to her chest, pressing her forehead against the top of her knees. 

“All right,” he says coolly. “I am sorry I couldn’t be there, but – “

“This isn’t about _that_ ,” she grinds out through her teeth. “I just – I have to go.”

“Jaime, please – “

“I’ll talk to you later,” she mutters and hangs up before he can say another word. She tosses her phone aside and inhales deeply, the back of her eyes burning with hot tears. 

“That didn’t sound great.”

“Shut up,” Jaime snarls at her dead companion, lifting her head. 

The ghost merely tilts her head, waiting. Jaime sighs and unfolds herself from the bed. The point of embracing all of her abilities was to make a difference, right? She’s supposed to be strong enough to deal with her own skills. Well, she’s got to start somewhere, with someone. 

“If you’re insistent enough to hang around my room, you must really need some help,” Jaime says at last. 

The ghost nods, her mouth thinning into a firm line. 

Sighing, Jaime gets to her feet. “All right. What’s the deal?”

*

Jaime feels like shit by the time she leaves Philadelphia. The live show went smoothly, but her haunter’s request – get her kids away from her murderous husband – not so much. Jaime isn’t much of a detective in the first place, but with some well-placed calls to the police and a jump in the Schuylkill River to turn up body parts, the job got done – with surprisingly no exposure for Jaime at all. 

She ignores Jeremy’s phone calls on her way home. It isn’t out of spite; she feels bad for hanging up on him in the hotel room. But there’s a frustration she can’t shake, a strange sensation of lacking. How can she fit into his life when his life is Pack? She wouldn’t ever dream of asking him to choose, but it still lingers with her, a haunting she can’t banish. 

Inadequacy is a dangerous foe. She may never feel like enough for him. Sometimes, in dark moments, she barely feels like enough for herself. 

The cab drops her off in front of her apartment in the middle of the afternoon. Chicago is like an oven in the summertime, the heat shimmering off the sidewalks under a brutal sun. Even brief cloud cover is little respite. Still, it’s something like home. Jaime sets her carry-on down and pays the driver, peering at the shadowed doorway to her building. 

And freezes. 

Jeremy sits on the front stoop, collected and calm as he rests his elbows on his jean-clad knees. Even in the heat of early summer, he is still sleek and unruffled, every dark hair in place. The olive of his skin is striking against the pale blue button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There is a small valise next to him on the steps. 

“Hi,” she says, approaching. 

He rises with ease and steps off the stoop. 

“Did I tell you where I lived?” she asks, tilting her head. 

He doesn’t say a word. When he’s close enough, he hooks an arm around her waist and pulls her into his chest. The breath leaves her lungs in a slow exhale and she tips her head back. One large lean hand comes up to cup her cheek, fingering the red strands coming loose from her upswept bun. Then, he kisses her, and she suddenly has no bearing on the heat or her apartment or her curiosity or _anything_ except the press of his mouth against hers and the possession of his hold. 

Fingers curling into the open neck of his shirt, she shuts her eyes and relaxes for the first time in what feels like weeks. 

“Why are you here?” she asks against his mouth, when her lungs are tight and she needs oxygen more than she needs the press of his tongue in her mouth. “Kate – “

“Is perfectly healthy,” he says, holding her close. 

She blinks up at him, brow furrowing. “Okay,” she says, at a loss. 

Wetting his lips, Jeremy looks down at her. “It sounded as if something was wrong,” he says after a quiet moment. “I was concerned.”

Her mouth thins and she shifts away from him, however reluctantly. “Are you staying?” she asks bluntly. This is not a conversation she wants to have outside on the sidewalks of Chicago. 

“If you’ll have me.”

She is quiet for a moment, watching him carefully. For the first time since she can remember, he shifts uncomfortably under her gaze, rocking back on his heels. “Or I can get a hotel room – “

“No,” she interrupts, rolling her eyes. “Jesus, just come inside.”

She picks up her bag before he can and sweeps past him to the front stairs, punching in her code and ushering him inside. Her apartment, on the third floor, faces the street, looking out towards the lake. It’s small, manageable; for the past fifteen years she hasn’t been home long enough to truly personalize it, but there are touches. The kitchen is all granite counters and clean white cabinets, barely used; the living room showcases the view, tall floor to ceiling windows bringing in sunlight and heat. Beyond that is an office she uses for storage, a bathroom in soothing ocean blue tiles, and her bedroom with its large queen bed and wide closets. It could be anyone’s apartment, really; there are no photographs on the walls, no mementos. 

Making a home will be harder than she imagined, before. 

“Drink?” she asks as he stands in the living room, looking out those windows. The floor plan is open concept; when she stands at the refrigerator, she can see right through to the living room. 

“Thank you,” he says, peering out the windows. 

She grabs two bottles of beer and twists the caps off, striding towards him. “Here.”

Jeremy glances at her, his fingers brushing hers as he takes the cool bottle from her hand. “Jaime – “

“You can’t drop everything and come after me whenever you think something’s wrong,” she says flatly. 

He tilts his head, curious. It seems a wolfish motion. His eyes remain steady on her. 

“I can handle myself,” she says firmly, taking a seat on her sofa and stretching her legs out in front of her to rest on the coffee table. “I can take care of myself. You don’t – you _shouldn’t_ race out here to rescue me.”

He doesn’t loom over her long. Taking a seat next to her, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t quite see it like that,” he says at last. 

Swallowing, she watches him, watches the line of his jaw as it works under his skin. “Okay,” she says when he doesn’t continue. “How _did_ you see it?”

A shock of dark hair falls over his brow as he turns his head to her. “I wanted to see you. And I was worried about you. But I didn’t come here to rescue you,” he says dryly. “I came here because I missed you.”

A shimmer of warmth travels under her skin. She takes a long swallow of her beer, keeping his gaze. In the warm sunlight, his skin looks even darker, his eyes more focused. 

“I was unhappy to not be able to meet you in Philadelphia,” he says, setting his beer on the coffee table. He takes a moment to look for coasters, but gives up. It’s IKEA; she doesn’t give a shit about condensation rings. “I thought calling would make it better. It seemed it did not, when you didn’t answer your phone. I thought coming here would be a statement.”

“A statement of what, exactly?” she asks, lifting her feet from the table. She toes off her sneakers and readjusts her seat, tucking her knees underneath her. 

“Of – of affection,” he says at last. “Of how much I care for you.”

She blinks, her heart freefalling to her stomach. “You’re a real bastard sometimes, you know that?” she squeaks out at last, a flush building on her cheeks. 

He smiles slightly at that, reaching out to brush loose red strands of sweat-damp hair from her neck. “So you’ve said.”

Grabbing his hand, she takes it in hers. “I was disappointed. But Pack comes first,” she says quietly. “I know that. I was pissy later because – “ 

Damnit. She heaves a sigh and drags her fingers along the calloused skin of his hand. “I had a haunter. An insistent one. It just all happened at once, and I couldn’t – “

“You could have told me,” he says. 

She shrugs. “You couldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t see the point.”

Jeremy is quiet for a long moment, turning his hand to press his palm to hers, their fingers sliding together. “I would have known,” he says at last. “You wouldn’t have – “

When he goes quiet, she shifts herself closer to him. “What?”

“You don’t have to be alone with these things anymore,” he says at last, voice low. “Perhaps I won’t always be able to come as I did today, but – I want to know.”

A strange warm sensation bubbles in her chest, foreign and unnerving. “This will sound ridiculous – but why?”

An odd smile slants his mouth. “Because I care about what’s going on in your life, Jaime. Shouldn’t I?”

 _Screw it_ , she thinks, and rises onto her knees on the couch. Before he can say a word, she straddles him and sinks over his lap, meeting his dark eyes. “I didn’t know if you wanted to be that _in_ ,” she says, the honesty reddening her cheeks. 

A hand comes to her cheek, touching the warm skin there delicately. “I do.”

She breathes out in a low rush, sliding her hands over his chest. “The sporadic nature of this – relationship makes it hard to judge what exactly we’re doing,” she says at last. 

“I can’t give you anything more right now,” he says, voice and eyes somber. 

“That’s okay,” she says with a shrug. “As long as you want to hear shit.”

Amusement colors the air between them. She imagines she can see the wolf there behind his eyes, smiling with her. Again, she wonders if the wolf likes her. She knows they aren’t separate entities entirely, but there is a difference in the mindsets. 

“I do,” he says, leaning into kiss her. “I want to hear everything.”

“Everything is a lot,” she breathes as his lips trail along her throat. 

He chuckles against her skin in a way that sends shudders down her skin. “I want it all.”

“I want it, too,” she says, tunneling her fingers through his thick sleek hair. “Seriously, Jeremy. I want to hear about your problems, too.”

He stills, mouth resting in the hollow of her throat. “I rarely have problems on the scale of haunters and rabid ghost hunters.”

She tugs at his hair, lifting his face to hers. “You’ve got Clay and Elena and Karl. They’re problems enough,” she says wryly. 

Jeremy’s mouth turns, and then he is kissing her again, until her eyes fall shut and she lets him turn her into the sofa cushions, his hands running wild over her limbs, under her shirt to bare skin. In the summer sunlight, he sucks and licks and drives her insane with want, until she can’t string together words for a proper sentence. 

Later, dozing on her couch, he lifts his head from her breast. 

“This isn’t how I pictured your apartment.”

“You’ve only seen one room,” she murmurs, mapping the line of his spine and the scars on his back under her fingertips. 

He bites at her neck, a melting sensation in her blood. “You’re a warm, affectionate woman. This place is open, but… “

“Cold,” she finishes, staring up at the ceiling. “Well, I haven’t spent a lot of time here. I don’t know if it’s home.”

He licks at a dark bite on her shoulder, chest rumbling above her. 

“I don’t know if I have a home,” she says at last. 

What she doesn’t want to say is this: with him, she feels at home. 

That is too much, too close for this moment. But she feels it. She recognizes it. Slowly, she inhales and exhales, the weight of his naked body a comfort. 

A light kiss from him at the pulse in her neck brings her back to the here and now. She glances down, watching as he rises above her. 

“Will you show me the rest?” he asks, dark hair falling across his brow. 

Heart pounding, she nods with a smile. “There isn’t much else to see.”

Naked and unashamed, he rises and holds out a hand. “I assume there’s a bedroom?”

“You’ve got a one-track mind,” she mutters, pleased. She takes his hand and he hauls her up and into his arms. Squealing, she points down the hall, towards the bedroom. 

He is the first man to stay the night. In the morning, he makes breakfast. His pancakes are passable, at least. She watches him over soggy pancakes, and sighs silently. 

“You’re quiet,” he says, shirtless at her kitchen table. “Are you troubled?”

She sips her coffee and smiles. “No fucking way.”

Eyebrows arched, he watches her carefully. “Well, in that case – “

He reaches out, sets her coffee down on the table, and tugs her out of her chair. They discover that her kitchen counters are just the right height for her to brace her palms against and lean over, and oh – he likes it. She craves it, the bite of his teeth at the nape of her neck and the press of his fingers into her hips. 

The words _I love you_ are on the tip of her tongue. But Jaime stays her voice. It’s too soon. 

Someday, maybe, she thinks. But having him here in her apartment is enough for now.

*


End file.
